Repose of the Illusionist
by Algonquin Bridge
Summary: After his imprisonment for his actions against the Titans in "Detention", Mad Mod escapes Jump City Penitentiary and returns to England to plot his vengeance!
1. Prologue: Too Easy

**Prologue: "Too Easy"  
**

_It really had been too easy._

These were the words running through Mod's head as he sprinted down a dank alleyway in Jump City. And to be fair to the crotchety old villain, it was.

Being deemed to be not as dangerous as Jump City's numerous other supervillains would be humiliating for most people who took on the Titans. But for Mod, it was a blessing in disguise. He was locked up in the Jump City Penitentiary; the one reserved for the run of the mill criminals and ne'er do wells. It was thanks to being imprisoned there that Mod was able to escape so easily. He wasn't much of a brawler, but he was a thinker and a trickster by nature. The guards at Jump City Penitentiary certainly weren't the brightest bulbs in the box, too; as evidenced by granting Mod a poster of the Royal Family to put on his cell wall, and an ornate silver tea set to help while away the hours spent in incarceration: All for his "good behaviour", naturally.

From there, Mod's actions were simple. Day by day, using the very sturdy cutlery, he chipped quietly away at the spot behind the poster with his cutlery. Thankfully his cell opened out directly over the river that ran by the prison, allowing for a simple splash-down in the river and a short swim to safety. And so, after months of picking away at the worn concrete, he escaped under the cover of a textbook prison riot; incited by a convincing a "good friend" of his into knocking out a guard or two.

"_Almost like something out of the films!" _He cackled mentally, his old legs carrying him as quickly as they could.

After splashing down in the river, he was overcome with adrenaline. Suddenly, his age no longer mattered; his frailty demolished by the pure instinct of survival inherent in all human beings. Not wishing to risk drowning in the river, or being spotted by the guards, he swam as quickly as possible to a small dock downstream, and, after drying himself off as best he could, ran towards the industrial district, his footsteps echoing across the empty streets.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, as rain pounded down upon the now-deserted area of town. Giving a sigh of relief, Mod had finally come across a dilapidated, worn out warehouse. Looking around him, to ensure no-one had followed him, he carefully peeled the corner of a tattered poster away to reveal a hidden keypad underneath. After quickly tapping in his access code, a rusty old door next to the poster, which seemed locked tight, opened with a metallic "click", allowing Mod to slink away into the depths of his hideout, out of the pouring rain.

A fresh change of clothes and a nice cup of tea later, Mod had booked his plane tickets out of Jump City to Paris. After all, it wouldn't do well to stick around in town after breaking out. Taking a final sip from his chipped cup, he grabbed his suitcase and his trademark cane. He paused at the entrance to his hideout, looking down into the murky depths. He tapped in the lockdown code and turned away, but not before bidding his hideout farewell.

"I'm sorry me old chap. But London's calling."

And with that, he set off into the night, braving the rain outside.


	2. Chapter I: London Calling

**Chapter I: London Calling**

The crisp December air blew strongly across the Thames, carrying with it another blanket of snow. The river surface thrashed and eddied, with the wind picking up an ethereal veil of foam and snowflakes. Against the howling wind and rumbling traffic, the chimes of Big Ben rang out across Westminster Bridge, signalling the passing of another hour in the day. Feeling the cool air on his face after surfacing from Waterloo Station, hearing the sound of the bells reverberate against his eardrums, Mod knew that he was home.

It had been a fairly long trip, however. He opted to fly to Paris, and then take the Eurostar to London. No doubt Jump City's police force would be aware of his escape, and on the manhunt for him at all flights to London. But thanks to his fake ID and inconspicuous clothing, he ensured that the chirpy woman with a beaming smile behind the check-in counter didn't notice that she was serving Mad Mod, the crazy old coot from Jolly Ol' England. So by going to Paris instead of directly to London, he wouldn't face the piercing scrutiny of the police force. The extra precautions worked wonders, as he had spent a pleasant flight to Paris catching up on some much-needed sleep, then an equally pleasant train journey to London, sipping champagne along the way. After all, he had to celebrate his successful escape somehow!

And so, back on his "home turf", Mod proudly strode across the station's concourse, accompanied by the rumbling of the wheels of his suitcase and the rhythmic "clack" of his cane against the floor. Upon exiting the station concourse, and walking to the taxi rank, Mod cursed his old body which was shivering slightly, despite being under the wraps of many coats, jumpers and scarves.

"_Bah. My body must've adapted to Jump City's warm weather."_ Mod grumbled mentally, as he stepped into the waiting cab. He sank into the back seat, and looked at the driver; who was finishing off a cigarette. The pair locked eyes.

"Where to, mate?" he asked, in a broad cockney accent.

"37 Morley Road, St. John's Wood, please." Mod replied, before gazing outside at the snowy scene.

"You're 'aving a laugh, 'ain't ya?" the cabbie retorted, tossing his cigarette out of the driver's window. "I 'aint going North of the river, mate. Not at this time of night, and especially not in this weather!"

Mod broke his dreamlike gaze at the snow, and turned to coldly stare at the driver. _"Christ."_ he thought. If there's one thing the old fellow did _not_ miss whilst he was abroad, it was this custom of London taxi drivers to often refuse accepting a fare to either the north or south of the River Thames; usually late at night. His grip tightening on his cane, Mod fought off the urge to wallop the driver on the head with it, and began to speak.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm an old gent, and I'm not up for taking the tube at this hour. I _insist_ that you bloody well take me where I need to go!" Mod complained, looking fiercely if fairly wearily at the driver.

"No dice mate. I 'aint goin' north of the river in this weather! I might not 'ave enough petrol to make it back if I do! I appreciate that you're elderly, but..." the cab driver trailed off, seemingly caught in an internal conflict. It was obvious he wasn't going to budge unless Mod could tip the balance in his favour...

"Look, squire..." Mod began, reaching into the pocket of his large winter coat, pulling out a wallet, "...maybe I can make it worth your while." He finished, now holding in his hand a crinkly £20 note. The cabbie's eyes widened slightly, before continuing the conversation.

"Fare's gonna cost you around 20 quid anyway, guv. You sure you've got enough cash on ya? I don't want to be messed around. Even if you are long in the tooth." He sternly warned.

"Rest assured, I have _plenty_, old chap. The tip should give you enough money for some petrol back...or a few rounds down the pub."

The driver grinned at Mod's suggestion.

"Now...37 Morley Road, St. John's Wood, _if you please_." Mod finished, sliding the note into the driver's hand, finally returning to gaze at his surroundings.

"St. John's Wood it is then, sir!" the cabbie replied, a fresh sensation of enthusiasm in his voice.

The cab departed from the rank, slowly moving through a few windy side-roads, before speeding up slightly upon reaching the main road. It drove along the embankment towards Waterloo Bridge. Slightly obscured by walls of plummeting snow, the London Eye stood silently above the surrounding buildings. The cabbie attempted to make some small talk as the cab stopped at a red light.

"Sure is something, 'aint it?" He said, motioning towards the Eye. Mod took note of it, sneering slightly.

"What, that oversized Ferris Wheel? Hardly impressive, I can tell you. Matter of fact, there's something more impressive on this side of the river."

"Really?" the driver said, shifting his focus back to the road as the lights changed.

"Yes. In fact, we're driving past it now...the National Theatre!" Mod exclaimed, rapping his trademark cane gently against the slightly foggy window.

Mod peered sentimentally at the concrete behemoth stood squat beside the river. It was a landmark in brutalist architecture, its roof obscured by mist, its dark shadow overhanging the embankment, contrasting heavily with its newer, more modern neighbour a few doors down. Despite Mod's admiration of the building, the driver wasn't impressed.

"Never really saw the beauty in it, guv. Although my dad were there when it first opened... 1978 was it?"

"19_76_," Mod corrected him, "And yes, I was there too. A cold February morning..."

"Wow. You and him should meet up, y'know. He's always interested in talking about his youth, too."

Mod didn't really pay attention to the last remark, his thoughts focussed at the memory of being one of the special guests asked to open the Theatre. As the most famous fashion designer in London, constantly ushering in new fashions, it was only fitting he should be there. But now here he was, old and alone...much like the building he was now staring at.

Passing over Waterloo Bridge, Mod cast his gaze over the Thames. The snow had picked up now, obscuring the majority of his view. He wistfully gazed west towards Westminster, where the only thing visible through the plummeting snow was the hazy glow of the clock face of Big Ben. The cab's wheels snarled and struggled over a difficult patch of snow, before finally making its way onto the Strand. Outside the cab, hundreds of people fought against the inclement weather, wrapped in many layers of clothing to shield themselves from the harsh conditions.

"They're mad, 'aint they?" the driver noted, directing Mod's attention as they slowly made their way towards Trafalgar Square. "Sky's full of the white stuff, it's cold as sin, yet here they are, getting on with their lives." His hands shot to the steering wheel briefly as the cab shuddered to the side slightly.

"That's the good old Blitz spirit, isn't it?" Mod wryly stated, unable to resist a patriotic statement being released from his lips.

"Isn't that the truth?" the driver responded, as he checked the fare meter again. "Don't matter what comes at us...we just put our 'eads down, and carry on with it."

The remainder of the cab journey was mostly quiet, the cab slowly trudging its way through postcard like streets, before finally arriving at Mod's destination, his elegant house at 37 Morley Street.

"Here we are guv'. That'll be £21.60." The driver stated, tapping away at the fare meter.

Mod reached back into his wallet, digging out a pair of £10 notes, and a £2 coin, placing them into the driver's hand. The driver nodded sagely.

"Thanks mate. Need any help with your luggage?" He inquired, pocketing the money.

"Oh no, I'm all right." Mod protested, grabbing his cane. "I may be old, but I'm not useless yet!" Mod chuckled, before opening the passenger door, allowing a small breeze of icy air into the warm interior of the Hackney carriage.

After retrieving his suitcase from the boot, he walked beside the driver side window, motioning him to pull the window down. The driver obliged, looking slightly puzzled.

"You have a safe trip back now. And _ensure_ that extra £20 sees good use!" Mod spluttered, caught off-guard by a sudden blast of wind.

"Thanks... I'm sure I can pay for a few rounds down the pub!" The driver winked, after eyeing the money in his hand.

"You'd better, or you'll be in hot water, my son!" Mod laughed, turning to his house.

And with that, the window rose up, and the cab pulled away, leaving Mod standing alone in the street, outside his snow covered residence.

With a sigh of relief, he mounted the stairs, thick with snow, leading to his front door. Digging into his pocket yet again, he pulled out a key and slid it firmly inside the keyhole. And with a turn of the key, hearing the "click" of the lock, he guiltily thought the clichéd phrase, "Home sweet home".

* * *

**Next Chapter: The Titans learn of Mod's little excursion from jail: How do they react to an old man's great escape?**

**_This story is focussed primarily on Moddy, and as such features frequent colloquial slang from England and references to British popular culture/geography: Nothing too heavy, but if you need some explanation, have any questions, or just want to verbally abuse me, then don't be afraid to drop me a strongly-worded e-mail!_**

**_Rate and Review...if you want to!  
_**


	3. Chapter II: Did You Hear The News?

**Chapter II: Did You Hear The News?**

The Titans Tower common room was abuzz with the electronic sounds of Beast Boy and Cyborg's _GameStation X_. Sitting aside them was Raven, deep in concentration over a dusty tome; she was, surprisingly, unfazed by the racket being produced by a mixture of button-mashing, obnoxious sound effects and equally as obnoxious trash talking.

The mood was fairly carefree. It had been a quiet couple of weeks on the villainy front. There hadn't been any supervillains needing disciplining, and Jump City's able police department continued in its daily fight against the slew of petty criminals. The lack of supervillains boded well for Jump City's citizenry, free to live without fear of destruction for another day, and well for the Titans, safely in their tower in the bay, enjoying some much needed rest and relaxation.

That is, of course, before Robin burst into the room.

"Quick, turn on the news!" Robin exclaimed, a slightly panicked look set upon his face.

"Awww, come _on_ Robin, I was just about to kick Cyborg's metal behind on _Beat 'em Brawler XII_!" Beast Boy protested, in a manner not entirely unlike a child begging his mother for something at the store.

"You wish, Green Guy. You've had your shape-shiftin' butt beat all 'round the rec room for the past 3 hours!" Cyborg retorted, patting the unhappy Titan on the head in a patronising manner, before noting Robin's face twitch into a slightly angrier demeanour.

"OK, Robin, OK! You win." Cyborg accepted, picking up the remote and switching over to the news channel.

Beast Boy smirked, adding this technical win to his mental list of "_Victories against Cyborg_", before leaning back on the sofa, gazing at the television with an air of satisfaction.

The image on the large screen crackled away to reveal a newscaster, dressed as formally as he always was.

"...and that's the Mayor opening the new Jump City University Science labs." The newscaster finished, before shuffling through some papers on his desk. After a brief second, he looked up, and began reading from his Autocue.

"And in other news, a prison riot at Jump City Penitentiary has left 2 inmates dead, several guards injured, and the confirmed escape of the villain known as 'Mad Mod'."

"Oh **man**!" Cyborg exclaimed, looking in shock at the screen.

"The riot broke out last night at 11PM, over an argument between an inmate and guard. It escalated into a prison block-wide fray, allowing the villain to escape through a hole in his cell wall obscured by a poster."

"Ugh, that escape route was so obvious! Like that one out of the..._Sureshark Redemption?_" Beast Boy commented. Raven quelled the urge to correct him over the film's name.

His outburst elicited a "Ssh!" from Robin, motioning for them to continue watching the broadcast.

"Mod was imprisoned 5 months ago for his kidnapping and subsequent torment of the Teen Titans. Despite his old age and frailty, he is considered dangerous. Should you encounter him, do not approach him and notify the JCPD at once."

Robin switched off the TV, causing the newscaster to vanish, and turned to the Titans.

"Okay, Cyborg, lock down the Tower's security system. Make sure that there's no way he can infiltrate the Tower or pump any knock-out gas." He ordered. Cyborg nodded and made his way over to the security panel.

"The rest of you, do a sweep of the city. I'll check out if he's left town." Robin continued, before turning and leaving.

"Great. _Juuust_ great. The old coot escapes, and now we have to scour the city looking for him! Now I won't be able to beat my high score!" Beast Boy protested, unhappy that his day of video game heaven had been brought to an end prematurely.

"Think of it this way; if we don't look out for him, he could brainwash you again. _Then_ see how able you are to play video games." Raven responded, placing her book down on the sofa.

Beast Boy raised his hand in preparation to deliver a retort about how he _could_ play video games whilst brainwashed, before realising that she probably had a point, and promptly clammed up. Starfire, however, was typically chirpy about the endeavour.

"This is most excellent news, friends!" she exclaimed. "Now we can look for him at the mall of shopping, then walk along the seaside, before visiting the pizza palace for glorious amounts of fattening food! And then we can-"

"Uh...Star; we're looking for a villain here. It's, uh..._not_ a day out." Beast Boy interjected, choosing his words carefully to ensure that he wouldn't upset his Tamaranean friend.

Leaving his chatting friends behind him, Robin paced down to the Investigations Centre. Upon arrival, he found the room was lit only by the pale bluish-white glow of the numerous computer monitors. He made his way to the desk, planted himself firmly in the revolving chair, and began tapping madly away at the keyboard. Being leader of Jump City's protectors, he had access to many databases. The airport's, the train station's, even access to the license plate readers at the freeway's tollbooths.

He decided to Log onto the main database of Jump City International Airport, immediately beginning to scour their check-in log on the night of the riot. Had they obtained Mod's true name, it would've been slightly easier to search for him: but his true name was just as much of a mystery as where he went that night.

Robin entered an almost trance-like state, as he often did during his in-depth investigations, staring at each monitor as if he were trying to stare down a suspect. Names flew across the screen, but no matches were found. His trance was interrupted by the sound of the door sliding open behind him. Slightly startled, he turned to see who it was. And at the doorway was Cyborg, his robotic parts glowing an electric blue in the already darkened room. He stepped forward towards the searching titan's workstation.

"Well, I've changed the security codes, encrypted the wireless access to the gas-mains, got the coastguard's help in patrolling the bay, and we have Beast Boy out front as a guard dog..." Cyborg chuckled slightly at the last 'security measure', before continuing. "...there's no way the old guy could get anything in here; be it knock-out gas, hypno-screens, embarrassing school uniforms-"

"That's okay, Cyborg...I get your point." Robin said with a raised hand, interrupting Cyborg's comical list of suggestions.  
"Good work; I'll sleep a lot sounder tonight." Robin smiled, lowering his hand and eliciting a faux blush from his metallic companion.

"Oh, shucks Robin. It was nothing..." Cyborg noted the bank of screens. "Still no match, huh?"

"No. We don't know his name. We don't know if he's left town by plane, train, bus, or if he's even left town _at all_! And **if** he did, we don't know if he wore a disguise or not! You'd think _someone_ would've reported him by no-"

"_Whoa_ there, Robin. You're gonna burn out your noggin if you keep stressing out at this rate!" it was Cyborg's turn to interrupt him. Ensuring he had the riled up Titan's attention, he continued.

"Look, at the moment, the tower is secure. The cops are scouring the town for him, and if he tries anything, he's got 3 Titans out there on his back. He **isn't** going to make a move!"

Robin took in what Cyborg said, and allowed it to digest in his head.

"...You're probably right, Cyborg. He may be a bit...kooky, but he isn't dumb enough to commit a crime right after breaking out."

"See! Nothin' to worry about." Cyborg laughed, slapping Robin on the back.

"Yeah...but I'd like to run through the databases. One more time. Just to make sure." Robin stated, turning back to his screens. Cyborg looked a bit dejected, but realised that he couldn't pull him away from what he was doing.

"Okay, Bird Boy. Just don't stay up all night. Otherwise you'll be late for your morning sparring session! And I don't want an opponent who's deprived of sleep...that'd be _too_ easy!" And with a hearty laugh, Cyborg left the room, leaving Robin to his research.

"You're out there; somewhere..." Robin grimaced, staring once more as the computer began to slowly sift through the database.

"I'm going to make sure that you don't skip your...detention."

Robin promised to himself, once more scanning the screens with his gaze, a wry smile playing upon his lips.

* * *

**Funny how they always seem to turn on the news at _just_ the right moment, eh?**

**That's the first time I've written the Titans. I hope I haven't ruined their unique charm.  
And not much really goes on in this chapter: understandable, as the story as a whole is about Ol' Moddy, not the bratty Titans!**

**Thanks for reading. Feel free once more to review, ignore, or send death threats to me!  
**


	4. Chapter III: Home, Home Again

**'Ello my duckies! Quick note that this chapter uses two colloquialisms that might be a bit _too_ colloquial. I've put their definitions at the end of the chapter; hopefully they won't impede your enjoyment of the story! Without further ado, Chapter III of _Repose of the Illusionist_!  
**

* * *

**Chapter III Home, Home Again**

Gazing out of his bedroom window, Mod was displeased to see that the heavy snowfall had not ceased since his grand return the night before. One or two drivers had made the foolhardy decision of using their cars to travel; they were met with an uncooperative road surface. Amusingly, they were making as much headway as the struggling pedestrians, slowly yet surely plodding through the scene that could have been ripped straight out of a postcard.

Turning away from the window, he let out a yawn and stretched as much as his old bones could, his throat dry and raspy.

"Ah, quite possibly the best night's kip I've had in years!"

He was probably right. The four poster, king-size bed in his lavish London home was a damn sight better than the lumpy sofa in his oil-rig fun house: And the less said about his cell's wooden plank, the better.

Knowing full well he couldn't just stand around in his pyjamas, he shuffled across the warm carpet to the bathroom. Upon reaching the sink, he turned on the tap, instantly releasing a stream of water.

"_Nice to see the council haven't turned my water off."_ He thought, humming _Rule Britannia_ whilst splashing the cool liquid upon his face, gradually waking him up. After he wiping the crust from the corners of his eyes, he looked up from the sink into the mirror. An old, gaunt face stared back at him.

"Oh dear, Moddy, the years have _not_ been kind to you, have they?" he inquired wistfully, his fingers running over the numerous wrinkles and liver spots that had manifested themselves in his old age. Pinching at some slightly saggy skin under his chin, he pored over the finer details of his face. It was the first time in a while that Mod decided to really look at himself. He had been busy with tinkering with complex technology, leaving him little time to just stop and realise how _old_ he looked.

"Seen so much, this ol' face and I..." he continued, lazily gazing off into the distance, reminiscing about his past...

He shrugged his head quickly.

"Bah, No time to be lamenting over me face," he chuckled, snapping out of his nostalgic gaze. "It's time for breakfast!" He threw on a plush dressing gown and slippers (with Union Jack motif, of course), before flicking the light off and leaving the bathroom.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he turned right into the grand lounge. He opened the curtains, flooding the room with light. Boasting two sofas, a moderately sized coffee table, an upright piano and antique fireplace dominating the room, Mod's lounge was the epitome of inner-city comfort. It was relaxing, it was comfortable, it was everything that an old man needed for his retirement.

Picking up his Ruby Cane, which he had left leaning against the sofa the night before, he twirled it around his bony fingers (ensuring not to hit any of the ornaments dotted upon the mantelpiece), whistling a patriotic tune as he walked into the kitchen.

The kitchen was a paradise of sparkling white tile and polished granite worktops: Luxurious, just like his living room. Taking in the sight of his beloved kitchen, Mod could picture his perfect breakfast now. The earthy smell of crispy toast filling his nostrils, the small "squelch" as his knife slapped some marmalade upon it, hearing his enthusiastic crunching as he munched away at it. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat as he strolled over to the bread bin, opened it up and...

Empty.

"_Bugger_."

He slammed the lid down.

Grumbling with both his mouth and his stomach, he put the kettle on. A cup of Yorkshire Tea would have to satiate his hunger until he was ready to brave the elements outside and pick up some food.

Upon hearing the kettle squeal, Mod poured himself some of the piping hot drink, made his way into the lounge, and flopped onto the sofa.

"Time for some telly, methinks." He said, as he picked up the remote and turned on the large television, situated perfectly above the fireplace. The image flickered for a bit, _"Probably the snow", _Mod thought, before it finally settled on a channel.

"...You're watching Breakfast." The female presenter welcomed, flashing a big, if slightly insincere smile towards the camera.

"Don't know _how_ she can be so chirpy. I mean, who gets up at 6 in the bloody morning and manages to feel happy _2 hours later_?" Mod complained, sipping his tea. His belly protested with a whine.

"Hoi, pipe down you!" he chastised, prodding his unruly stomach. "There'll be plenty of time to feed you later!" He returned his attention to the TV.

"Today's big stories..."

"_Oh, this ought to be good."_ Mod thought, taking another sip from his tea. It had been a while since he'd checked up on what was going on in Blighty**¹**. He knew that the latest elections gave a surprising result, but very little else. Not much time for that when you're in a wacky oil-rig fun house teaching bratty kids a lesson. Or wasting away in the gaol**²**.

"The police are launching an official inquiry into the way they handled the outbreaks of rioting during the student demonstrations..."

Almost on cue, Mod's face fell into a sour expression, his upper lip curled into a snarl, and his grip tightened on his cup.

"Kids these days!" He exclaimed, his teacup quivering between his bony fingers. "Not content with what they have, now they start smashing things up!" He shot an angry stare at the news footage, now showing hooded figures throwing bricks through a plate glass window.

The tea grew cold as Mod continued to simmer in his aged anger. He could picture the faces of the Titans, those snotty teenage do-gooders, grinning maliciously under the cowls of the rioters on the screen. He could hear their snide laughter as they smashed windows, overturned cars and terrorised fleeing innocents._ "Not content with interfering with other people's hard work, eh? Not content with bullying an old man and throwing him away in prison? Not content with-"_

A loud, painful gurgle from his stomach slapped him out of his mental rant. He looked surprised at first, before his scowl softened up into a bashful smile. He gently patted his protesting gut.

"There, there, now. Let's get dressed, and head down to the shops, eh?"

* * *

A throbbing headache caused by the icy wind, soggy trouser cuffs from the slush underfoot, and bland Muzak wafting over the Tannoy. Not a pleasant start to a trip to the supermarket.

Struggling to settle his glasses upon his frozen nose, Mod grasped for the nearest hand basket, encountering some trouble with grabbing it with his gloved hand. After much faffing around, Mod finally began to make his way through the aisles of the shop.

"_Bread."_ The first item that shot into his head. He was still kicking himself for not picking some up the night before. The thought hadn't occurred to him then and there that he needed to re-stock his house with food. Then again, the only thing on his mind the night before was heading straight upstairs and catching up on some well-needed sleep.

Funnily, despite the pain of his freezing forehead and the mild discomfort of his damp trouser cuffs rubbing against his ankles, Mod didn't feel half bad.

"_Y'know,"_ he thought, slowly pacing through the aisles and perusing their goods, _"When you've spent so long preparing traps for super-powered brats, and being locked in a cell, you forget the simple pleasures of going shopping."_

He had no need to worry about being busted by the police. He didn't have to be constantly on edge, expecting a group of teens blasting through a nearby wall to capture him. He could relax for a bit. Content with his more laid-back circumstances, He gave a silly grin, eyes shut as he shuffled down another empty aisle. Unconsciously, he bobbed from side to side in time with the inoffensive Muzak sailing airily through the store.

Suddenly, a noisy clatter emanated from the end of one of the aisles. Eyes snapping open, body tensing up, and emitting a noisy "Aah!", Mod dropped his basket and clutched his cane with both hands, eyes darting from side to side, scanning his surroundings expecting to see spandex-wearing adolescents running towards him.

He was instead met with the sight of a messy pile of tinned goods being hastily tided up by an employee. He breathed a sigh of relief and picked up his basket, his old back creaking as he bent down to pick it up.  
_"Guess I'm not so relaxed after all!"_ he thought, looking a bit embarrassed about dropping his basket to the floor. Before moving over to the next aisle, he looked again towards the employee, scrabbling for the cans rolling about on the floor.

_"Hang on."_

Something inside Mod twigged. He was sure it was him. He couldn't get a good look at his face, but...

"Pete?"

The figure crouched on the ground by the tins stopped for a second, before slowly raising his head.

Upon seeing the old villain, the employee's face softened into a smile.

"Malc!"

* * *

**_¹ Blighty - Britain._  
_² Gaol - Prison._  
**

**_Mod Mart™_: Special offers on Canes, Brainwashing Products and people from your past!**

**Next time: The search continues for our wily old fugitive.  
**

**Apologies on the wait, I'm taking my time with this one. I'm trying to be as careful and meticulous as possible with an OC interacting with Mod: It's impossible to shell the old guy's character out without _some_ interaction with his fellow Brits!**

**Thanks again to you readers and reviewers. Your helpful criticism helps keep my old ticker in check! As always, any questions or death threats, feel free to drop me a message!  
**


	5. Chapter IV: Fixing A Hole

**Chapter IV Fixing A Hole**

"Titans, report! Any sign of him?" Robin's voice crackled on the communicator, laced with authority and leadership. He was heading the Titan's investigation into the crochety Brit's disappearing act, and the sooner they caught him, the better.

Starfire was the first to chime in. She, with Beast Boy in tow, had been scouring the Jump City mall, under the reasoning that "Old folk _love_ to stroll there during the day". They also had to assure their leader that they most _certainly_ didn't choose to investigate there in hope that there might be some cool stuff on special offer during their investigation. At all.

"We have looked many times around this wondrous place..." She started, voice full of her infectious glee, "...but we have not found Mod." She finished, simmering down into a more solemn, saddened tone.

Robin sighed with dissatisfaction. "And what about you, Beast Boy? Have you managed to pick up his scent?"

Currently in the form of a monkey, lying aloof in a branch eating a banana, he quickly morphed back into human form to talk to his superior.

"Nothing, man." He answered, tossing the banana skin into a nearby bin, and lazily picking a few fruity bits from between his teeth.

"Old people, even _evil _old people, all smell the same to me. Also, it's a scorching hot day, so everybody smells pretty bad round here."

A glare from his Tamaranean team mate.

"Except for you Star, _heh_..." he finished, nervously grinning and hoping that she didn't hold his comment against him. Thankfully, a friendly smile cleared his doubts.

Robin chewed on this new information, mulling it over in his head for a few seconds. Not wanting to leave his team-mate hanging, he responded.

"Well, keep checking the mall out. Maybe he'll drop by for some shopping later on...thanks for the update." On that, he signed off.

Beast Boy proceeded to drop casually from the branch he was sat upon, and landed perfectly next to Starfire, who was looking eagerly at some patterned T-shirts on display.

"Ugh, I could be back home watching TV or reading comics." he complained. "I mean, we've **locked** the Tower down so he can't try and capture us again. And really, he's not _that_ much of a threat any-"

Starfire spun round, and joyously directed Beast Boy away from his aimless rant to a T-shirt in the window.

"Look Beast Boy! Is it not 'mind-boggling'?"

He chuckled at his friend's interesting choice of adjective.

"Starfire, I don't think a T-shirt can be-"

The design was an eye-straining black and white spiral.

The shapeshifter collapsed on the floor in a dribbling, twitching mess.

"Oh dear," Starfire sighed, propping him up against a wall. "Now I must revive poor Beast Boy with comical armpit flatulence!"

* * *

Robin admittedly doubted that Mod would choose to parade round a well-frequented shopping mall after breaking out. If anything, he was waiting upon what the other two Titans would find.

"Can we report what we've found yet?" a calm, slightly bored voice crackled on the communicator.

"Go ahead, Raven. Anything of interest at the Funhouse?" Robin replied.

Raven and Cyborg were digging around Mod's Oil-rig Funhouse, where the five had been held captive and escaped from about a year back. A mess of motorised (thankfully motionless) marble busts of the British villain, projection equipment, and an arsenal of explosives was all that remained.

The rig was pretty much untouched since their great escape. Obviously, aside from a police investigation of the facility after the Titans' escape. Since then, it was evident that not a soul had set foot down into the maze of trickery. And though the two had seen much scarier things than an empty Oil-rig, they were still put-off and expecting _some_ kind of leftover trick. One thing was certain; no matter what might lay in store for them, they were there to find any sort of clue leading to Mod's location.

Cyborg began his report, while sifting through a dishevelled pile of chairs and picture frames.

"Aside from some tacky furniture and..." Cyborg paused, looking at a rather..._interesting_ portrait of the villain, before tossing it aside, "...pictures, this place is clean."

Raven picked up a plaque lying near her feet.

"Aside from the dust." She finished, blowing a small layer of dust off the plaque.

Now clean, it clearly read "_Mad Mod's Institute for Bratty Teenage Do-Gooders_" in cursive script, with the added subtitle of "_and their __re-education and _rehabilitation into adult society" embossed below it. Finishing reading it, Raven casually dropped it back to the floor.

Still thinking hard about the elusive criminal, Robin proposed the next question on his mind.

"Does he have a computer set up in there? Or any kind of Mainframe?"

Cyborg knelt down on the chequerboard floor, tapping at the tiles to see if there was anything underneath, whilst answering the question.

"Haven't found it. And what he had set up in that control room you found him in didn't have any files on it: It was pretty much an oversized game controller for the place."

"Are you _positive_ that he hasn't got another computer somewhere in there?" Robin asked.

"Well, if he has, _we_ haven't found it yet. Give us some more time."

"_Patience, Robin...patience_." While Mod certainly wasn't a bruiser, he was still a slippery, subversive criminal. In a way, Robin preferred tougher, more brawny opponents; at least they weren't subtle when set loose.

"Okay." He sighed, "I'd like all of us to reconvene back at the Tower in an hour. Continue investigating, I'll finish up here at the Penitentiary. Robin out!"

"Any luck?" Came a voice from his side. It was the Head Warden of the Penitentiary wing Mod was imprisoned in, who was also present during the riot.

"Unfortunately, no, Warden...Barry, was it?" Robin replied, slightly embarrassed at not remembering the man's name.

"Bailey."

"Ah, right. Sorry about that." Robin couldn't help but crack a small, meek smile. "_I can't afford to be slipping up around the people that trust me!_" he thought.

Bailey smiled warmly.

"Don't worry about it. Besides, I've had worse done to me than a forgotten name!"

Bailey was a tall, yet stocky man in his mid-forties. He remembered a time when Jump City started to see more and more impossibly powerful criminals commit crimes within city limits. The feeling of how helpless he was against them had been a constant, palpable fear: a chilling reminder that no matter how good he was at his job, he couldn't do much against a villain who could punch _clean_ through concrete walls.

Thankfully, the formation of the Titans in Jump City helped alleviate his fear, so he could get on with his job without worrying constantly about his mortality. And now here he was, somewhat directly involved in an investigation with the leader _himself_.

The person in question was visibly deep in thought, a hand pensively cupping his chin, eyes poring over an open report file. If he hadn't known any better, Bailey could easily have mistaken the strong-willed, determined Robin as a brooding, almost _sulky_ teenager. The investigation wouldn't go anywhere with Robin moping around the Warden's office, so Bailey anticipated a good moment to clear his throat and attract Robin's attention.

"So...shall I show you to his cell?" Bailey enquired, motioning his open hand towards the doorway leading to the gaping alley of cells running down the centre of the building.

"Yes, please." Robin responded as they walked out of the door. "Could you tell me more about Mod's behaviour in prison on the way?" he continued, as Bailey shut the door behind them.

"Certainly." he replied, pacing in time with the comparatively short hero.

"_Although,"_ Bailey thought, _"There's probably not much I can tell him that he doesn't already know..."_

Robin's visit to the Penitentiary had luckily coincided with that cell block's lunch period. All of the cells were empty, meaning there weren't any vengeful criminals with mouths bigger than their brains around to heckle the hero. Warden Bailey gave an inward sigh of relief: In his focussed state, Robin would either shrug off a lowlife's remarks, or potentially settle their grievances with fists.

The interior was unspectacular. Almost a copy-paste of many other institutions in the country: 3 floors of identically-sized cells, a central chasm between opposing rows, bridged with grated walkways. No need for fancy security when they didn't house any "super-villains", so to speak. Its design truly followed the maxim _"Form follows function_."

"Ah, Mod." Bailey began. "_There_ was a special case. No superpowers, no abnormal strength, but _somehow_ still a moderate threat! That said, to us, he was just a quiet ol' guy who needed to be fed and watered."

"In other words, a model prisoner?"

Bailey chuckled heartily.

"Oh no, we weren't _nearly_ as lucky." He explained. "He _was_ quiet for the most part, but it didn't take much to set him off. A remark from another inmate, not being able to watch the international news on the mess hall TV, or even his old back, and he'd be stamping and _seething_ with anger that only gets worse in age!"

"_Adds up to what we know about him, psychologically."_ Robin thought, mentally ticking off where his and Bailey's observations matched up.

They finally arrived outside Mod's cell. A few tattered remnants of police tape rippled gently in the breeze caused by the gaping hole in the back wall of the dank cell.

"Here she is. Let me open her up..."

With a turn of his keys, the barred doors slid across with a noisy clatter, allowing the pair entry into the place Mod begrudgingly called "home" for about half a year.

The main point of interest, was of course, the gaping hall in the wall; with a poster of the Royal Family strewn beneath it. Immediately, the Titan was beside the hole in the wall, using a scan function on his communicator to analyse the crafty old man's escape route.

There was a palpable silence in the room, with Robin intently inspecting the crime scene, and Bailey standing by the entrance of the cell, overseeing the hero.

"Heh," he laughed nervously. "I'm hoping we can get to fixing that hole soon. The rain gets in, and the other prisoners are complaining about the cold!"

Bailey had attempted to defuse the tense mood with some light chatter: But the teenager was clearly more interested in going over the crime-scene himself, noting his observations down on the communicator. The silence was _killing_ the warden. He'd been in some run-ins with hardened criminals and had hung off a top-floor railing during a riot, but compared to the overbearing mood in that cell, they were nothing. Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to leap out of the hole himself: The sheer intensity Robin was emanating was painfully stifling.

_"Okay...he's competent enough to do this without **me**, right? Plus, he's the damn **leader** of the Titans...he doesn't need me around to babysit!"_ Bailey rationalised, looking nonchalantly around the cell.

"Erm...need any help?" A futile question, but Bailey hoped it would give him an opening to leave politely.

"No, I've read over the Police report..." Robin replied, not even lifting his head to make eye contact. "I'll just finish up examining the scene and head home."

Bailey's ploy had worked, and he mentally high-fived himself for his successful "I'm-sincere-but-I-really-have-to-leave-now" act.

"Okay then," Bailey responded, noticeably relieved. "I'll get one of the boys to wait for you and lock up when you're done." He motioned to one of the guards standing outside the cell. The guard gulped.

_"Sorry pal...but crap rolls downhill!"_ A fairly callous thought, but it was all in "self-preservation", as far as Bailey was concerned.

"Thanks for the help, Warden Bailey. We'll catch him...sooner or later..." Robin replied, trying his best to give a half-hearted smile, before plunging back into his scrutinising examination. With that, Bailey walked off back towards his office, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Robin didn't get too far into his examination before his communicator loudly interrupted.

"Robin here."

"It's Cyborg." He sounded slightly perturbed for a guy investigating an abandoned Oil-rig. "We've had a development here... It's given us quite an interesting lead."

"_A clue?"_

"Nice work." Robin's face loosened up, as did his mood. "All Titans, reconvene back home...we have an old man to catch!" He felt satisfied knowing that they _may_ have found something to lead the way to where the trickster was.

Bailey, on the other hand, sat back down in his chair and gazed at the bank of security-camera monitors. He noticed Robin leaving the cell...but what he did didn't matter much to him now. He couldn't wait his shift to be over. Because after one encounter with the famous hero, he knew he needed only one thing:

A nice cold drink.

* * *

**My, this chapter went through a _lot_ of re-jigging and editing!**

**Initially, the interaction between Robin and Bailey was more confrontational, ending with Robin insulting Bailey concerning his work ethic. Obviously, we can't be having Robin ruining his good PR, can we?  
**

**On that note, I find Robin to be the most difficult character to write. Make him _too_ serious, and he just feels 'flat' and frankly, not very likeable: He's only really that serious when he's going after Slade! Likewise, I can't be having him _too_ calm; He _is_ chasing a villain who managed to "outsmart" him and his team! Hopefully, I've struck the right balance. Otherwise, I hope it doesn't impede your enjoyment of the story as a whole.  
**

**What clue did Cyborg and Raven find in the Funhouse? All will be revealed in a later chapter. But up next, it's time to pull some pints for a memorable night with our mean old man!  
**

**Thanks for your continued reading, reviewing, critique, and most of all: patience!**


	6. Chapter V: A Night At The Blue Jay

**Chapter V A Night At The Blue Jay**

A weekday night: normally, the city would be emptying. Scores of commuters would flood down into the Tube and escape the city to their homes. Cars, constantly crippled by the traffic, would make their way to the further reaches of London, only to repeat the same arduous journey the next day.

But not tonight. For England was still in the icy grip of wintry winds from the north. The snow had been falling ceaselessly, keeping the city frozen solid. A romantic picture to photographers and tourists: a right pain for everybody else.

In the midst of the cool blue and frosty white, an almost solitary glow of orange dared to stand firm against the elements. Situated on Mendips Parade was The Blue Jay: a little Pub, tucked between a pair of newer, contrasting apartment buildings. Two storeys of soot-scorched stone, Victorian slate and hand-blown glass. The Blue Jay was not just a place to get smashed on a variety of alcoholic beverages: it was a place to catch up with friends and family over a nice, quiet drink.

And it was here, in the cosy warmth and tobacco stained upholstery of the beloved tavern, where Mad Mod, or Malcolm Richards, as the rest of the world knew him, chose to engage in a much needed catch-up with his good friend, Peter Rigby.

"First round's on me!" Peter exclaimed as they walked in from the cold, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "Charles? Guess who!" he called, walking towards the bar.

Mod, however, stood at the doorway for a few moments to take it all in. The pungent smell of tobacco, the shine of the oak and brass of the bar, and the warmth emanating from the building brought many memories flooding back to him, in one chunky heap of nostalgia.

_"A good pub should feel welcoming to anyone who drops in...but the Jay..."_

A loud whistle from the bar area.

"Don't just stand there like the last turkey in the shop! Pull up a stool!"

Snapping out of his blissful reverie, Mod hobbled over to where his friend was sitting, grunting slightly as he sat down. He brushed off some snow that had decided to settle on his shoulder, and rested his cane aside him.

"Peter, me old china**¹** ...it's been too long!"

Mod had taken Peter on as an apprentice back when he was running _Mad Mod:_ at the time _the_ most popular fashion boutique in London. Looking at his friend's face, seeing his almost perpetual grin, Mod knew already that Peter hadn't changed much.

"_A cheeky lad you are, Pete. Both now **and** back then. Never thought I'd see the day where a chap from the rough part of the East End decides to try and make it in the fashion industry..."_

But, in spite of first impressions, Peter was brimming with confidence: if a little rough around the edges and difficult to get along with at first. However, he soon proved to Mod just how utterly dedicated he was to his dream. As the years went by, Peter became the Assistant Manager of _Mad Mod,_ and the pair enjoyed their popularity and success.

"_That was, of course, until 'Swinging London' died, and we couldn't connect with our customers! They were too bloody infatuated with newer, American brands..."_

Mod's face fell slightly; almost like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

Though their golden days on Carnaby Street were consigned to the history books, the two remained good friends. They had spent many a night in The Blue Jay, and had many a drink to boot.

But tonight was not just _any_ night; which Peter made clear as he slid a cool glass of Bitter to his compatriot.

"Get 'em in old man, it's been a good 5 _years_ since last we saw each other!" Peter said, taking a sip out of the amber in his glass.

"Who're you calling 'old man', you cheeky sprog?" Mod replied, smiling as he cupped his hand around the cool glass. "You're only 3 years younger than I am!"

"Makes all the difference, Malcolm...after all, only a _really_ old man could forget to give his good friend a call when he was in America!" Peter mocked. Mod scratched the back of his liver-spot dotted head sheepishly.

"Eh-heh...I really got caught up in life State-side."

"Caught up for _5_ whole years though? Must've been bloody busy."

Mod simply smiled back and gazed into his drink, taking note of his old face's distorted reflection in the amber.

"Speaking of which, Malcolm..." came a powerful voice from behind the bar, "Just what _did_ you get up to over in the US?"

Polishing a pint-glass, gently yet unerringly thoroughly, was Charles; the landlord of the Blue Jay.

"_Big man... in both stature and personality. Good listener, though. All you could ever need from a good pub landlord." _

An expecting gaze from Charles jolted Mod out of his internal monologue.

"Blimey, you haven't even had a sniff of the stuff and you're out of it!" Pete joked, taking a mouthful of his drink. He sighed in satisfaction and leant in closer to the "Prodigal Son" of the pub.

"Did you cruise across country on a road-trip?" He enquired. A sly grin quickly spread across his bristled features. "...tie the knot in Vegas?"

Mod prodded his friend jovially with his cane.

"'Course not, you daft bugger!" he responded, some redness flaring up on his cheeks (which Peter correctly deduced wasn't the fault of the cold).

The inquisition being led by his two old friends did nothing to help Mod's slight sensation of paranoia. He knew full-well that they wouldn't know of his "indiscretions" across the pond; regardless, the cogs in his head were turning at full-speed, concocting a little lie to cover his back, just in case.

"I went into a bit of part-time teaching, actually." Mod responded as casually as he could, taking a nonchalant sip of his drink. The sharp tang of bitter was refreshing and abrasive: he hadn't had a taste of some finely-brewed ale in years.

"Oh?" came the inquisitive response from Charles, his voice dripping with a warm Yorkshire accent. "How did they behave, _sir_?"

"Well, you know how obstinate those American kids are...it's so bloody _difficult_ to teach 'em a lesson!" Mod smirked:

"_No idea **how** difficult!"_

"Like that American lass who worked for us? Y'know, back in '65?" Peter chimed in, prompting a grumpy look from Mod's face.

"Her? Don't remind me...she was a _right_ pain.** Never** listened to a word I said!" he grumbled.

"Always nattering on about her 'new ideas for the store', too overbearing with the customers..." Mod listed, fondly remembering his hey-day, pausing to take a drink.

"Getting off with the property landlord..." Peter interjected with a nudge. Mod spat out some of the Bitter he was midway through drinking.

"Now, Peter," he spluttered, trying not to choke with laughter (or on his drink), "There was _never_ any truth to those rumours!"

A pause.

"...didn't make firing her any harder, though!" Mod finished, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The men shared a good laugh, filling the pretty empty pub with much needed life.

"In all seriousness, she wasn't cut out to work at _Mad Mod_, the most _revered_ fashion shop in London!" Peter said, calming himself down with a swig of his drink.

"Right you are," Mod responded. "Loud-mouthed, _petulant_...full of frankly **rubbish** design ideas...why, getting rid of her was nothing **but **a good thing for us!"

That stroll down memory lane over, silence fell upon the pub's occupants. Finishing his drink, Mod resorted to playing "Captain Obvious" to stimulate some conversation.

"Not busy tonight, are we Charles?" Mod noted matter-of-factly, glancing around the interior.

The soft, if worn seats were empty. The green felt of the pool-table was mildly scuffed, the cues patiently awaiting their next game from their perch upon a shelf. The fireplace (a rare sight for a pub) was crackling away to nobody in particular, and the jukebox was tucked in a corner by itself: a thin layer of dust coating the slightly-faded glass.

"Well, no-one's daft enough to brave the elements tonight!" he smiled, "Not like you pair of nutters!"

"Not just _any_ nutters," Peter began, "but _the _reunited nutters who dressed all of London back in the day!" He raised his glass to his old friend, whom obliged with a toast to their health.

The landlord let out a sigh, which called Mod and Peter's attention away from their drinks.

"In all seriousness lads, it's like this almost everyday now, snow or not."

He leant on the polished surface of the bar, closer to the two men.

"With less money to spend, people prefer to buy some cheap booze from a supermarket and get pissed at home."

"That's not on!" Mod retorted grumpily. "Where's the fun in that? Drinking at home..." he said disbelievingly. "Why, back in our day, you went to the pub, had a good time _and_ got bloody-well drunk!"

"Well if that's your intent, old boy, then less talk, more drinking!" Peter responded, starting on yet another pint.

The two settled into their drinks, and Charles did his usual business of meticulously taking stock of the assorted bottles behind the bar. Once more, silence befell the pub; but this time, it was broken by a particularly nasty gale, howling outside. Mod raised an eyebrow, and proceeded to engage in the age-old English past-time: chatting about the weather.

"It's not giving up, is it, eh?" he said, motioning to the blue haze outside the frosted-window. Peter, who was mid-drink, acknowledged him with a raise of his eyebrows, before finishing the last of it.

"Most inclement weather for the time of year." he affected a ludicrously upper-class accent, managing to provoke a toothy grin from his aged friend.

"Don't know how many times I've nearly slipped and cracked my head open! and, if we're walking home in this cold..." Mod began, correcting his glasses that had once more slipped down his nose...

"You lads better get a few more drinks to warm up!" Charles chimed in. "So...what'll it be?"

Mod thought. It had been a while since he had access to a large range of intoxicating liquor. While his drink of choice in America had almost exclusively been Tea, he'd be lying if he said that he didn't have a few alcoholic drinks now and then. But after a blurred night involving a full bottle of Scotch and a hologram of himself, the old man vowed to stay of the sauce...for a while.

Noticing that Charles was patiently waiting to serve him, Mod opted to go for the classic.

"I'm in the mood for some stout."

The Yorkshireman nodded, and began to pull some of the frothy beverage. Mod turned to his friend, who was snickering like an embarrassed school-girl.

"_Stout_? Come on, Malc! Why don't you try some mixers, or some shots? Live a little?" Peter protested playfully. "We can't be drinking like old men for the rest of our lives!"

Mod couldn't help but laugh at this latest outburst. Partially due to Peter's slightly drunken whining, and partly thanks to what he'd been drinking.

"_Mixers_? Dear oh dear, my _ducky_. I know you're meant to be my 'youthful foil', but you can't drink like you're in Uni all the time!"

"You're only as old as you feel!" Pete replied. "And call me 'ducky' again, and you'll find yourself with a few teeth missing tomorrow morning!"

The playful threat only encouraged more laughter, as the drinks kept going down.

Anxiety...stress...even aged bile; all three seemed to fizzle away into the ether as the night went by. Mod felt a warmth radiate outwards from his stomach, chasing away any remnants of cold in his arms and legs. His wrinkled face, normally sharp and snarling, was now loose and smiley. A passerby could easily mistake the crochety old villain for a jolly old grandad.

"_Titans? Young 'uns? __**Pah! **__Who could worry about them when you're having such a good time, eh?"_

To him, his troubles were well and truly hundreds of miles away; literally and figuratively. In spite of this, Mod could _just_ make out a patriarchal voice in the back of his head chastising him, croaking above the laughter and merriment of the elderly pair.

"_Don't__ drink too much. You're too old. Your body can't handle this much at once. Time to call it a night, you old sausage._"

His face drooped a bit. It was something to consider...his liver probably wasn't in as good nick as it was when he was Mod king of London...

"_But a guy's just got out of prison and crossed halfway across the globe. I think I can indulge a bit **just** for tonight!"_

That justification was all he needed to ask Charles for another pint.

Inevitably, his indulgence ended up with him in a frankly silly situation: sprawled atop the pool-table (along with Peter), woozily gazing at the soft glow of the lamp above them. Charles couldn't help but crack a smile at the antics of his two longest regulars, chuckling as he stepped out from behind the bar.

"Okay lads, time to pack it in. I think you've both had enough!"

"R-rubbish! I-I can have a few...few...more!" Came the slurred response from Mod.

"A few more and you'll be chucking up over my lovely carpet!"

"_Lovely carpet?_ Are y-you pulling my leg, mate?" Peter interjected. "This stained old rag hasn't been cleaned since...since...Germany was unified!"

"And you'll be falling like the Berlin Wall too, if you don't get home soon!" The landlord replied, quick as a flash.

"L-look at me!" Mod continued, straining as he pulled himself over to the edge of the table, wincing as he shifted his weight onto his feet. "Steady as a b-bloody rock!"

He stood there proudly for a second, shaking ever so slightly, before his old knees buckled and he hit the floor with a thud. Instead of howling in pain, he burst out laughing.

"Y-you're bonkers, you are! All these years...all these years later, and you're still a mad mod!" Peter heckled, limbs hanging lazily over the edge of the pool-table.

Mod's ear pricked at this outburst. Feeling no aches whatsoever, he quickly took to his feet (sending the room spinning wildly), and grasped his cane, which was leant neatly against the bar. He spun it skilfully around his bony fingers, and thrust it triumphantly towards Peter, struggling to focus on his friend.

"The one and _only_, pet!"

He felt an arm being gently placed on his shoulder to steady him, prompting him to look quizzically at the arm's owner. Unsurprisingly, it was Charles, who looked pleasantly surprised at the old man's 'cane fu'.

"_Since w-when did Charles get so...so..**big**?"_

"Impressive tricks, old fella: but let's get you and Pete on your way, eh?"

Pete responded with a groan, while Mod simply replied with a stupid smile across his face.

* * *

Outside the Blue Jay, the wind had finally died down, now a breeze instead of the blustery gale it was hours ago. Likewise, the snowfall was noticeably lighter: resembling more a dusting than a blizzard.

With Peter leant on his right arm, and Mod on his left, Charles stepped out of the thick oak doorway and gently released the two boozed-up old men into the street outside, bathed in the orange glow of the street-lamps.

"Last time...are you two** absolutely **_sure_ you don't want me to phone a cab?" Charles asked, hoping to convince the merry twosome.

"A c-cab? Trying to get t-through this snow? You're 'aving a laugh, Governor!" Mod replied, far more interested in gazing up at the sky above him. Charles sighed, accepting 'defeat'.

"You two get back safely now. Thank your stars the snow has calmed down."

Charles remained standing in the doorway of his pub, watching on as Mod and Peter hobbled slowly down the pavement, swaying and giggling at nothing in particular.

"Th-thanks, Charles...see you later!" Mod stuttered, giving a limp wave before leaning lazily on his cane. Charles rolled his eyes, smiling at the sight of two old regulars stumbling their way down a picturesque snowy street.

"_They're old enough to take care of themselves...I hope."_ And with that, he retreated out of the wintry cold back into the warmth of his pub.

The inebriated pair (using each other for some support), blundered their way down the silent street. Other than themselves, not a single sign of life could be seen on the frozen, snow-blanketed roads. The buildings that lined the route were mostly businesses, shut for the night; towering above the street-lights like ominous monoliths.

At the start of the evening, their conversations had been articulate and coherent. Now loose on the streets of London after a good night's drink, they had devolved into heart-felt, if not silly tirades.

"Y-you're my best m-mate, you are..."

"N-no, Pete, you're _my _best mate..."

"I'm a b-bit tipsy, but even _I_ can see that...that..."

"Oh s-spit it out Peter, you old..._droog_!"

"N-now you're just making words up, Malcolm!"

And the pair degenerated into laughter, too drunk to either notice or care about the noise they made. Mod's head shot up as he recognised the juncture they had reached.

"Pete, isn't...isn't this w-where you need to turn left?" Mod asked, nudging his sleepy friend in the ribs.

"Ah yeah..." Peter responded, tugging his arm off Mod's shoulder. "You-you get home safe, I'll see you soon, all right?"

"I'll be sure to...I may b-be old, and a _little_ bit pissed, but I can get home by myself!"

Peter responded with a spontaneous hug, causing Mod to wheeze at his friend's over-zealous embrace.

Peter then released his comrade from his grip, and vanished hiccuping into the mist of the night.

Mod leant against a wall, steadying himself in preparation to walk home. As he did, there was a noisy clatter of a dustbin colliding with an old man.

"God's sake!" a familiar voice cried out.

Mod guffawed, continuing onwards alone. He strained as he struggled to recall his route home from memory. He blamed the difficulty of remembering on two things: One, his life in America for the best part of 5 years, and two: the copious amount of alcohol he had in his bloodstream. Figuring out a quasi-familiar route in his head, he pressed onwards, his cane sinking into the freshly-fallen snow with a regular crunch. Mod felt warm in the otherwise freezing conditions, (thanks to how much he had drank), taking no notice of the frost nipping at his nose.

For the most part, he couldn't look straight ahead of him. His head felt heavy, causing him to drowsily peer at his feet as he wobbled farcically down pavements, only _just_ keeping balance with his cane.

A few slip-ups and wrong turns later, he finally made it to his house. After a few battles with some ice on the steps leading to the front door, he managed ascend to his goal. He fumbled in his pockets for his key, his bony fingers shivering unwittingly in the biting cold.

"Th-there we go!" He near-cried in triumph. He had to use both hands to steadily manoeuvre the key into the lock, before successfully opening it. On impulse, he let out one last drunken giggle into the night, before slamming the door behind him and locking it. The street was empty once more...

Aside from a lone figure, dressed only in a trenchcoat, who had covertly observed the old man's drunken return. The solitary shadow silently moved across the road towards the front door, and slid a thick envelope through the letterbox.

It turned and walked towards the corner of the street, ready to disappear into the night, but not before delivering an ominous message.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself, _old man_...but there's _no_ rest for the wicked."

* * *

_******¹** Cockney rhyming slang for "Mate"._

**Seems like Mr. Mod has had a good night out! But it looks like he'll have more than just a hangover to worry about in the morning...**

**Thanks for your patience. Keep 'em peeled for some more Mod soon!  
**


	7. Chapter VI: The 334 Steps

**Chapter VI: The Three Hundred and Thirty Four Steps**

"Ugh, my _head_..."

Splitting headache. Painful back-ache. Unbelievably dry mouth; the textbook symptoms of a nasty hangover. Mod was sprawled across his bed, but not even the softness of his mattress could ease the overall pain his old body was enduring. He wanted to go back to sleep, but the discomfort was too much to bear. That, and his alarm clock was shredding his sensitive ear-drums with its shrill ringing.

"Agh! S-shut up!"

He flailed his arm towards his bedside table, vision blurred without his glasses. Mod slapped the snooze button angrily, silencing his rude roommate, before clumsily swiping at the clock once more and sending it flying across the room. He was taken aback by a particularly strong throbbing in his head.

"Oh _**hell**_**!** Now, where'd I put it...?"

Now a bit more awake, he managed to open the drawer in his bed-side table and pull out a packet of painkillers.

"Just where I left 'em...down the hatch!"

In spite of his Sahara-like mouth, he was thankfully able to swallow the pill. A few moments later, the awful pounding in his head started to calm down, alleviating his suffering. Now a new priority had popped up in its place.

"**Water!**"

Not bothering to put on a dressing gown, he threw off his sheets and hobbled as quickly as his legs could take him across to the bathroom. He desperately turned on the tap, and started to lap up the cool, refreshing water.

"_A bit primitive...but it'll take too long to find a glass..."_

Satisfied with drinking from his oasis, Mod once more took a look at himself in the mirror. A blurred face looked back at him.

"I can't very well look at my _lovely_ self without my glasses!" He laughed at his forgetfulness, and made his way back into the bedroom.

As he walked, he felt the heavy contents of his stomach slosh around uncomfortably inside him.

"Blimey! ...I _did_ put 'em away last night, didn't I?"

A low growl, rumbling from his belly.

"What? Hungry _already_?" Mod asked, half-expecting an eloquent response from his protesting gut. It was evident that alcohol did nothing to quell a man's hunger.

"Well," he began, putting on his glasses, dressing gown and slippers, "I suppose a bit of brekkie can't hurt!"

He picked up his cane, which was leaning casually against the doorway, and made his way downstairs once more, painkillers in his gown pocket in case his headache decided to make a comeback. Thanks to his grogginess, he paid no attention to the front door (and the envelope lying in front of it) and paced determinedly into the kitchen.

"Ha ha! No chance in 'ell I'm getting caught short _this _time!" He exclaimed, rubbing his hands together and gleefully opening his now fully-stocked fridge.

Within minutes, the appetising scent of breakfast was wafting round the kitchen, the food happily crackling on the hob. With a piping hot cup of tea waiting to be drunk on the worktop, Mod slapped some butter on a few slices of toast.

"A little entrée, to soothe the little one." He said, devouring the toast heartily.

It did the trick, and his stomach was quiet... for the moment. Waiting for the eggs and bacon to finish cooking, he looked out of the kitchen window at his back garden. Not a single blade of grass could poke its head through the thick snow: the shed was surrounded by a miniature snow-drift, and a few paw-prints revealed the path of a cat across the lawn.

"_While that's a __**lovely**__ sight and all, I weep for my poor petunias...if they're still about."_

That was a point.

"_Did I remember to hire a gardener before I left?"_

Before he got too worked up over his "Schrödinger's Flowers" conundrum, the brilliant sizzle of his food tugged his attention. A grin spread across his face as he heaped the piping hot food onto a plate, and got well and truly stuck-in.

* * *

A rather loud belch signalled Mod's victory over the helpless plate of fried-eggs and bacon.

"Aah...nothing like a fry-up to start the day... especially after last night's piss-up!"

He enjoyed the feeling of the grease sitting heavily in his stomach, giving him a pleasing sensation of being completely full. A pause.

"...Hang on... what _am_ I going to do today?"

He groaned in exasperation; once more, he was at a loose end. He was free, but he was just as filled with ennui as he was in prison. He started to vocalize potential activities for the day.

"I could go out to the shops, but there's no real need to...Pete's probably asleep against a sink right now..."

He chuckled a bit, imagining his old friend suddenly waking up against the cool porcelain of his bathroom sink.

He looked around the lounge, out of boredom. Surely there was something to do _other_ than stay inside watching odious daytime television...

His eyes managed to fall upon the envelope lying on the floor in the hall. His eyes narrowed at the sight.

"_That's strange."_ He thought. _"Surely any post should've been sent to my PO box?"_

Mod set down his cup of tea, stood up, and walked around the sofa to the front door.

"Probably a takeaway menu or some..." His eyes met the envelope.

**MAD MOD**

Neatly printed on the brown paper. If his cup of tea was still in his hand, he would've dropped it to the floor dramatically.

"_...They **found** me...!"_

The enjoyable, full feeling in his stomach just seconds before had been washed away by a bitter wave of dread. His thin fingers were shaking like leaves, and his mind was ablaze with fear and worry. For the first time in a while, he felt like a vulnerable old man. It was one of the things he despised most, the feeling of helplessness; he always considered himself to be strong and independent, even in his old age. _Especially_ in his old age.

Many thoughts and voices were screaming through his head, getting louder as he began to panic more and more. But one voice in particular stood out and snapped him out of his shock.

"_Oh for god's **sake**, man! **Pull yourself together**!"_

Grumpy old logic hit him like a hard slap across the face, shaking him out of his small panic attack. He grimaced and scoffed at his frankly embarrassing reaction to the mystery letter.

"I **really **am losing it, aren't I! Why on earth would the _snots_ drop by my house with a letter, instead of nicking me on the spot?"

It was indeed a bit silly. A bunch of super-powered teenagers delivering mail instead of justice? Absurd.

"But who did send this? ...Hmph. Let's have a gander then..."

He tore open the envelope, and pored over the letter within.

_Mad Mod._

_I know of your 'activities' in Jump City._

_In relation, I have **urgent** news that we must discuss in person._

_I'll be in the belfry of Big Ben at noon, each and every day. You will find a key to the tower and  
_

_a pass to Parliament grounds enclosed with this letter._

_The sooner the better, Mr. Mod. Leave it too long...and you may find your new-found freedom cut short._

"...And no name. **Typical**. Hmm? Definitely something else in here..."

The envelope felt heavier than most, and sure enough, a slightly-rusted key and shiny pass were lurking at the bottom.

Any feeling of happiness leftover from breakfast were now gone, replaced by his usual, grumpy countenance. He was thankful it wasn't the Titans heckling him...but that still didn't stop him from being worried about exactly _who_ it was that wrote the letter; they obviously knew of his villainous identity.

"Well, whoever wrote this letter, they don't _appear _to be the malicious sort. I mean, they would've offed me already if they were, right?"

"_Hopefully."_

He mulled it over in his head. On the one hand, he might get into a bit of bother. On the other hand, he didn't have much else to do...and this "urgent news" definitely piqued his curiosity.

"In any case, I know where he...or she'll be...best make a day out of it, then."

Concurring with the letter's instructions of "the sooner the better", he returned to his room to get dressed, ensured he had his wallet, his keys, and most importantly, his cane. He gave a few practice thrusts and overhead swings with his trusty friend.

"Who needs superpowers, when you can give a blighter a rotten headache with a few clouts from this?"

Feeling a bit more confident about facing his mystery contact, he wrapped up and left the warmth of his home for the bitter chill outside.

* * *

While the snow had ceased falling, the skies were still white with clouds, and the temperature remained thoroughly chilly. With the roads still thick with snow and the threat of more on the way, Mod had no choice but to get to Parliament via the London Underground.

"_No way I'll be walking __**that **__distance, snow or not!"_

The greenery that normally surrounded St. John's Wood station was, like Mod's garden, blanketed by snow. He even noticed that the little café next door (dedicated to some famous studios nearby) was shut; given the miserable weather, few tourists would have wanted to trudge their way out there to visit.

Upon entering the concourse, Mod was a bit taken aback by how...empty it was. It was around 10 o'clock, yet the spacious concourse was void of human life. He shuffled over to the ticket booths, stamping the snow off his leather boots as he went. There was a gentleman manning the booth; he was obviously worn out, nearly zombified. A cup of steaming hot coffee stood untouched upon his desk, the man himself was staring blankly into the distance.

"Excuse me."

…

Mod loudly tapped the ruby of his cane against the plexiglass impatiently.

"_Excuse _me!"

The attendant quickly snapped his gaze upon Mod, who was glaring angrily at him.

"...Can I help you sir...?" A monotone response that would be fitting for a soulless robot.

Mod's eyebrows were scrunched up into a scowl, focussing a concentrated stare of anger at the sluggish man.

"A Day Rider, _please_." He spat out the "please", as if it were some vile insult.

The staff-member continued to keep eye contact with him, his quick fingers tapping on a keypad betraying his overall zombie-like demeanour. Money changed hands, Mod received his ticket, and he stormed off towards the barriers; filled with the venomous bile that only a grumpy old man being treated poorly by a youngster could muster.

"_Bah! The people they hire today...no respect!"_ He frowned, put his ticket through the barrier, and proceeded down the escalators.

The sound of his cane rapping against the tiled floor echoed through the long tunnels leading from the escalators to the platforms. It was a veritable labyrinth of hallways and corridors, twisting and winding their way under the metropolis. The spaghetti-like caverns of tile, signs and adverts would bamboozle any stranger who ventured within...however, Mod was very much well-travelled when it came to these passageways.

"Let's see...Jubilee line southbound...no need to change...get off at Westminster. Right."

He mumbled his route out loud, safe in the knowledge that no-one was around to notice and think of him as some crazy old fool. Not that he particularly cared about the opinions of others, of course.

He arrived at the right platform, and it was as he remembered before leaving England: the only difference being the utter lack of people. He looked down at his watch.

"Well, the train's not going to be here for another few minutes or so..." consequently, he sat down on a bench to rest for a while. As he sat, he felt a pang of pain and a dull throb from the upper part of his back.

"Hmm?" He instinctively began to rub it slightly, to try and soothe the pain. "...didn't notice this before..."

He surmised that it was probably nothing, sighed and took in the 'sights' of the platform. He was happy to see that the traditional ceramic tiles that clad the walls were intact and surprisingly well-kept. The subways in Jump City were grimy, concrete monstrosities in comparison; all things functional with none of the form. It was either nostalgia or a bizarre sort of patriotism which made Mod feel comfy and _happy_ to be waiting for a train, ready to meet this mysterious letter-writer.

He didn't have to wait long; a hiss of the rails, the noisy clatter of wheels, and a surge of air rushing through the platform signalled the arrival of the train. There were a few people on it, wrapped up warm and looking as tired and miserable as ever. Mod stood up and made his way onto the nearest carriage.

"_Mind the gap...mind the gap..." _Mod jokingly repeated as he boarded.

With a shudder and a low whine, the carriage doors slammed shut, and the train pressed onwards; bringing Mod ever nearer to his mysterious rendezvous.

* * *

"_Well, the service was running on time. For a **change**."_ Mod mumbled as he hobbled up from the Tube station onto the cold, wintry surface of London.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. As he stood on the pavement across from his destination, the unmistakable sound of the world's most famous bells rang out the half-hour. His attention was immediately drawn to the imposing clock tower known the world over. Intricate Gothic stonework melded with durable Victorian cast iron, with four great glass clock-faces staring boldly over the city.

"_...It looks a lot cleaner than it did, back in the day!"_

Indeed, when Mod saw it regularly, bathing in the 60's sunshine, it was caked in dark soot; thanks to years of traffic fumes and the infamous 'pea-soup' smog of '52. It had been cleaned up since then, allowing the light-brown of the limestone to breathe once more.

"_Heh, can't stand around 'ere, staring at it like a bloomin' tourist, can I?"_ He snapped himself out of his reverie, and crossed the road to the iron gates surrounding the grounds of Parliament.

The gate to the yard at the foot of Big Ben was manned by a pair of rather well-built Policemen. They stood strongly against the wind, giving the stony-faced guards outside Buckingham Palace a run for their money. Stern gaze met stern gaze, as Mod marched up to them.

"Can I see your security pass, sir?"

Not saying a word, the old villain plunged his hand into a pocket of his padded coat, and pulled out the laminated rectangle.

"_Hope it works..."_ he thought, trying his hardest to prevent his steadfast gaze from faltering.

The policeman examined the card, nodded and returned it to the grumpy old man.

"...Mind how you go, m'lud."

Mod responded with a rough grunt, and walked through the gates towards the clock tower.

"_Hang on...'my lord'?"_

He inspected his pass, and was surprised to see that he was "Lord M. Moddie", as far as security was concerned. Fittingly, his photograph even had him wearing a traditional judge's wig.

"_Liking the hair...looks like whoever got me this pass has friends in high places..."_

Speaking of high places, Mod's gaze was once more locked on the height of the tower, reaching up into the white sky above him.

"_Funny...don't think I've **ever** been this close to Big Ben in all my life!"_

Mod made his way into a small lobby at the foot of the tower. He was almost disappointed; compared to the palatial gothic grandeur of the exterior, it looked almost like a maintenance room: plain concrete walls, dusty tiled floor, and a single door with the words "CLOCK TOWER" engraved in gold lettering.

"Well, here goes nothing..." Mod said, sliding the iron key he was supplied into the keyhole. With a turn, the door was unlocked and he made his way inside.

"...Oh _bloody hell_!" He exclaimed, as he saw the immensely tall spiral staircase rising above him.

"Don't tell me there isn't a lift!" he huffed, angry to find that the only way up was a long flight of stairs. Scowling once more, he shut the wooden door behind him, grasped his cane firmly, and began his mountaineering ascent.

Clack. Wheeze. Clack. Wheeze. Like clockwork, the various sounds caused by the old man echoed throughout the empty stairwell.

"_The Thirty-Nine Steps_? More like _Three-Hundred_!" He complained, to no-one in particular.

"This...this person _better _have a damn good reason for...making me climb all the way...up these bloody stairs!" He complained once more, noticing a ticking sound getting gradually louder as he struggled up the tower. He came across a door, this time with the words "MECHANISM ROOM" emblazoned upon it. The ticking and clunking was noticeably loud...

"...But no time to dawdle...the letter said the belfry...shouldn't...be much further...now..._agh!_"

A sharp pain in his back caused him to stop momentarily, rubbing the sore spot as best he could to provide some relief. After a minute or so of recuperation, he wiped some sweat off his forehead and continued ever upwards, eventually arriving at a rather tatty looking door.

* * *

With the end of his cane, Mod pushed the fairly battered door open, and was met with a harsh wind that was blowing across London. Making his way into the belfry, he was met with the looming presence of the 5 bells that were known throughout the world. The four smaller bells hung from each corner of the belfry, while at the centre sat the great hour bell – _Big Ben_.

Each bell was lightly dusted with the snow that blew in from the Gothic archways above the clock face. Mod, shivering with cold, was able to see the snow-blanketed city below him, the murky brown River Thames ever thrashing with the strong breeze. He grimaced as the bitter cold pinched at his nose and ears, then finally spoke out.

"Well? You've called an old man out on a dark secret, up countless flights of stairs and into the wintry cold!" He spoke, teeth chattering.

No response.

"Where are you? In fact, _who_ the hell are you?" He shouted, his voice resonating against the bells slightly.

He was met with only the airy rumble of traffic below.

"_Well?_" he grunted once more, pounding his cane against the stone floor, sending a clear "clack" echoing around the bells.

This time, he was met with a silky-smooth, almost monotone voice from above.

"Oh, I should hope that I'm a... _familiar_ face."

Mod's attention immediately shifted upwards, to the metal girders from which the bells hung. He adjusted his glasses which had slipped down his nose in the cold weather, and was met with a muscular figure, clad in a dark cream trench coat, an instantly recognisable black and bronze mask upon his face.

"Hang on...you're...Slade? Yes, that's the one!" Mod stuttered, scratching his aching, cold head. This elicited a sinister chuckle from the smarmy villain atop the bells.

"I'm glad to see you remember me."

"Well, 'course I would. Bit hard to forget the most notorious scoundrel of Jump City!" Mod replied, leaning onto his trademark cane; granting him much-needed comfort and support.

"I must say, that's a _smashing_ coat you've got there." He continued, half-sincerely, half-cynically.

"You've got your nation's weather to thank for that, old man...but I haven't crossed the Atlantic to discuss fashion." Slade stated, his condensed breath piping from his mask's grille. The statement left a rather bemused look upon Mod's face.

"Then why _did_ you hop across the pond, then?" Mod enquired, quizzically pointing the ruby atop his cane at the villain above. "Come to experience our weather first-hand?"

Slade smiled inwardly. "_Side-stepping the issue at hand.._. _but_ _I've caught his curiosity._" He straightened up, and held his arms behind his back.

"Have you forgotten the letter? I've some important news to tell you, and let's just say that I'd like to be of some...assistance to you."

"_Assistance?"_ Mod parroted, looking and feeling rather puzzled.

"Yes." Slade responded. "Assistance. With a certain group of teenagers?"

Mod paused.

"...They aren't a concern to me."

Another chuckle passed the supervillain's lips.

"Don't treat me like a fool, Mod. I know they've been on your mind." Slade said, pacing slowly across the girder supporting the great bell, his metal boots clanging rhythmically against it.

The old man gave no reply, and continued to stare hardly at the villain atop the girders. A palpable moment of silence passed between the two, before Slade finally broke it.

"Mod...or Mr. Richard-"

"Mod will do _fine_." Mod snapped back, not comfortable with being called his true name by a fellow villain.

"Well then..._Mod.._." Slade made extra effort to emphasise the Brit's villainous name. "Shouldn't we continue our little 'chat' indoors? ...you _must _be feeling chilly."

Mod nodded gruffly, and gave a stern stare at Slade's patronising manner.

"_Bloody cheek..."_ he thought, as Slade leapt down from his perch to the floor. He motioned to the door with his outstretched palm.

"After you."

The villainous twosome made their way down the stairs, Mod doing his best to quieten his incessant wheezing.

"_I don't like it when he's behind me...like he's breathing down my neck."_

"Here we are." Slade said, grasping Mod's attention. "The Mechanism Room."

Mod opened the door, and was greeted with a large room; a two-tiered mass of cogs, gears and chains positioned in the centre. The lower tier housed the majority of the clockworks, and the upper tier housed cylinders that extended in four directions; each reaching to a grand clock-face.

To the side of the clockworks was a modestly-sized table, with two chairs facing one another. Not something one would expect to be in the delicate workings of the world's most famous clock.

"Please do sit down, Mod." Slade motioned, as he himself removed his coat, flung it over the back of the opposing chair and sat down. "You must be exhausted."

Mod huffed indignantly as he took his seat, cane clasped in his hand.

"What do you expect? Making me climb all those steps...I'm not a spring chicken any more!" He noticed a plate of food in front of him...Fish and Chips.

"...Don't tell me you called me up here for a dinner date."

A laugh from Slade; not a laugh you'd like to hear. Mod could hear his inherent maliciousness dripping from each chuckle.

"Oh no. I just thought you'd be a bit hungry after getting here. Dig in... it won't _bite_."

Mod stared at the expressionless mask for a moment. He looked once more at the plate, a paranoia kicking in suddenly.

"_Don't get too worked up Mod...if he wanted me **dead**, then he would've offed me whilst I was at home... besides, what would he gain by killing me anyway?"_

Quite the choice. Eat the piping hot battered fish and risk death, or refuse the offer and risk having his stomach protest..._again_.

It was no contest. Mod tore into the fish, his yellowed teeth gnashing away happily.

"_...Not bad!"_ he thought, trying not to let a silly smile ruin his 'mean old man' façade. He had to keep the veneer up. He looked at Slade in the eye and furrowed his brow once more.

"Okay. But _my _chippie's better."

"That is from your 'chippie'."

"The one round the corner from my house?"

Slade nodded.

"Not my chippie. Mine's a bit of a further walk, near the railway viaduct..."

"_Mod..." _A near maternal voice sing-songed in his head,_"you're **rambling**..."_

"Uh, as I was saying! Perhaps if you'd taken the time to install a bloomin' stair-lift, instead of buying me a take-away, I wouldn't _be_ so-!"

"-Please be quiet for a few moments." Slade interjected, hand raised in a "stop" gesture.

"Eh? Why-"

Suddenly, the room was filled with a cacophony of metallic clanging. His attention was brought to the clockworks, numerous cogs and assorted gears now spinning wildly. Chains leading up and through the ceiling clanked noisily, as the bells above them started chiming. After the final bell rang out, the final tone continued to resonate throughout the room, as the noisy clatter of the mechanisms slowly subsided back into its regular, perpetual tick-tock.

"_That's_ why."

Mod picked a stray bit of ear-wax from his slightly chilly lobe.

"Well, it's every 15 minutes on the dot...one thing's for sure, you'll never forget what time it is in here!"

A somewhat awkward silence, with only the noise of Mod's munching and the clockwork ticking to accompany Slade's cool, almost aloof demeanour. Though the food _was _delicious, the old villain kept pausing every now and then, to see Slade's expressionless mask staring right back at him.  
The tension was once more unbearable, causing Mod to break off from his meal.

"Enough beating around the bush, Slade...what's this 'important news' about, eh?"

It was as if all the air in the room had been sucked out in an instant.

"The Titans."

Mod's heart took a plunge.

"They're on their way to London as we speak."

Mod immediately took to his feet in a mixture of shock, anger and fear, knocking his chair out from under his feet.

"I-I've got to get out of here, then! Get on the next train up to Edinburgh, and live out my life in the highlands as a bloody shepherd! **Oh**, but then they'll probably-"

"_**Enough.**_" Slade's voice boomed, ending Mod's panicked charade like a teacher coldly putting down a child. The old man's knees were knocking against each other, and his eyes were wide, focussed intently on Slade's mask.

"You didn't let me _finish_. They're coming here...but they're not even sure you're in London. They _don't _even know your true identity, _Mr._ Richards..."

Fear was now overtaken by annoyance and anger.

"Then why the _hell _did they decide to come here anyway?"

"...it appears they found a small clue in your little 'funhouse'. Needless to say, once they've got a lead on a villain like _you_, they'll follow it...by _hook_ or by _crook_."

"I don't _believe_ this! I thought I'd set the systems to wipe themselves automatically if I were to be captured...bah! Crying over spilt milk, I suppose..." He babbled, the gears in his head far out-turning the real gears nearby.

"_I've got to find out **more**." _He thought.

He started with the obvious question.

"And just _how_ did you come by this information?" He began, pacing aside the table and the well-built villain.

A chuckle.

"I hate to say this _tired-old _line but...let's just say 'I have people _everywhere_'; which explains how I was able to find **you**. And get you that security pass, _'your lordship'._"

Mod paused briefly, mulling it over.

"...makes sense. But I have another question."

"Ask away."

"Why did you bother coming to warn me? What would the _almighty Slade_, the bloke who can stand toe-to-toe with the super-powered brats, want from little old Moddie, shivering in the cold?"

Slade smiled behind his mask. "_Excellent. There's that curiosity again."_

"I'm in need of your assistance."

"pfft...huh...ha...Aha!" The aged Mod couldn't help but laugh, his croaky chuckles filling the room. He coughed hoarsely, wiped a tear from his eye, and looked Slade dead in the eyes...well, eye.

"I-I'm sorry, but you _have_ to be taking the piss!" He stood up and leant on his cane. "You need _my _help? The help of a weak, old, _coffin-dodger_?"

Slade just looked on silently, waiting for Mod to finish his mini-tirade.

"What could I possibly do to the Titans that _you _couldn't, with your strength and youth, eh?"

This time, it was Slade's turn to laugh.

"Don't put yourself down so _easily_, Mod. It's true that I can hold my own against the Titans...but don't forget how well _you_ fared."

"Eh?"

"You managed to capture them...using a method so **brilliantly** simple."

_"What method's that then...oh!"_

"The knock-out gas?" He said matter-of-factly, as if it were as normal a subject to discuss as the weather. Slade nodded.

"Believe me, I bet most of our colleagues wouldn't even _think_ of trying to capture the Titans that way...and then you come along and pull it off _perfectly_. Such a deceptively simple, but effective means of carrying out the job."

It didn't matter if Slade's remark was or wasn't meant to be taken as a compliment. Mod had big problems to worry about, and he didn't like being buttered up.

"That as may be, but I still don't see how that could be of help to you? There's no way that old trick'd work again. Why, they probably locked down the Tower the minute they heard of my escape!"

"_Indeed they did."_ Slade thought.

"True...but you have other talents that proved effective against them, and would be of great help to me."

A light-bulb in Mod's head flicked on.

"...My holograms?" Slade nodded again.

"They're _rather_ good. Your mind-bending mazes and lifelike illusions managed to confound and distress the Teen Titans in a most effective way."

Mod smirked somewhat proudly, reminded of happier times, when those do-gooders were frantically scrabbling round his fun house helplessly. For Slade, it was all coming together; Mod had taken the bait, his ego was boosted a bit, and now it was time to present his proposal in full to him.

"I'd like you to 'have another crack' at those teens you detest _so _much."

A tall order, to be sure. But he wasn't ready to turn him down instantly. Mod listened intently, nodding for him to continue.

"I'm not going to give you a deadline. I'm not going to give you instructions. I'm simply here to warn you of the incoming Titans, and provide you with a few pointers _should_ you decide to return to Jump and have at them once more."

The idea of being able to get a few tips from the nemesis of the Titans seemed a bit _too_ good to be true for Mod.

"...And if I decide to just call it quits? If I want to hang up my cane and quietly live out the rest of my days at home?"

Slade gave a small shrug.

"I'm not going to coerce you into anything."

Mod scoffed slightly.

"What, _honour among thieves?"_

"Something like that."

Mod thought, trying to sift through the vibrant and varied emotions he was experiencing and think things through properly. The constant, rhythmic ticking of the pendulum in the room helped him logically put his decision together, piece by piece. After a few moments of silence, he responded earnestly.

"Can you give me some time to think about it?"

"I don't see why not, old man. I don't expect you to rush these things." Slade quickly replied.

"We'll have less of that 'old man' talk! I'm **well** aware of my age!" Mod replied grumpily, his spare hand rubbing the sore patch on his back.

"Just remember, Mod. The Titans should be here _tomorrow_. While they don't know exactly _where_ you are, they'll be milling around town for sure..." Slade's baritone voice boomed above the repetitive clunks and clinks of the machinery.

"...so stay inside. Close the curtains, wrap up warm and watch some TV for the next few days. I'll be here when you're ready to come back with a decision."

With that, Mod nodded warily at the faceless villain, wrapped his scarf tightly around his thin neck, and made for the door.

"I'll be off now...thanks for the food." he said begrudgingly.

"Oh, and one more thing, Mod..."

He turned to the bulky villain, who was observing the mechanism intently.

"...don't be going out drinking any time soon...wouldn't want to get caught with your trousers down by the Titans, _would we_?"

"...Cheeky git!" Mod said with a huff, slamming the door shut behind him, ready to journey back home.

* * *

**Apologies for the wait between this chapter and the last.**

**It was around a year ago that I first inspired to write this story. For those who didn't know, the winter of 2010 was a very, _very_ snowy period for England. While it was a pain to travel, the scenery provided was staggering: familiar places utterly submerged by snow. So inspiring it was, that I immediately came up with the description of London, featured in the _London Calling _chapter of this story. It was from there that I built up the rest of the story.**

**I enjoyed writing this chapter. Two of my favourite villains meeting up in an important and interesting location. Yes, I pulled the Slade card. He's just a great villain to write! He oozes villainy and class...and I imagined his trademark voice (provided by the great Ron Perlman) whilst I was writing! As is the case with Slade, his motivations are unclear, and never set in stone. So who's to know what he's planning? **** Rest assured, Mod's story isn't over!**

**Thanks for your patience; I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and a very happy new year to you all!**


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